I don’t know much about my conception, other than the knowledge of how babies are born. My mom reminded me for years, still does, that my dad was her one and only. They court each other every day. I know the love that created me, because I see it in their stolen kisses in the kitchen or my dad’s hand brushing across my mom’s backside. I hear it in their voices when they talk about each other, still reveling in the awe of one another.
I liked sex more as I got older. I like it the most now that I am married to DW and I can honestly say that my youngest child was conceived out of the love and passion I have for my husband. It’s more than passion, though, it’s an unbreakable bond built by mutual respect and adoration. But not my oldest. My first-born was conceived out of my need to be needed, and a need to be loved unconditionally. I wanted her more than I wanted anything else in my life, with the hope that having her would be enough.
Motherhood finds us, I think. It wasn’t something I ever dreamed about, or sought out initially. My inability to take care of myself made it rather impossible to picture me taking care of any one else. And yet, I jumped all in with The Tortoise, even in the midst of chaos, when really, I should have been climbing out. Circumstances changed by the time I was ready to conceive The Hare. I was a more mature woman, more capable of being a role model and dedicated mother.
There are women in my life that are suddenly facing motherhood unexpectedly for the first time, or years after they thought they were done parenting little ones or even contemplating adding a child to their single life. No matter how motherhood is conceived, what matters the most are those children and our commitment to them. What matters is how we love them once they are in our lives, because they won’t remember their conception either.
They will just remember all the years after.